Two Days Later
by chris dee
Summary: Bruce and Selina in the Art World of Gotham City
1. Part I

TWO DAYS LATER - Part I  
(A sequel to THE MORNING AFTER)  
  
  
"The collaborative relationship between Anton Chekov and the Moscow Arts Theatre was like no other up to that time..."  
Dick realized he had begun reading this sentence no fewer than 6 times and he still wasn't taking in a blessed word of it. In one fluid move he slammed the cover of A HISTORY OF MODERN THEATRE, picked up the telephone receiver and pushed speed dial #2.  
  
"Papa's Pizza" answered a nasal voice.  
  
"Sorry, wrong button." He hung up and pushed speed dial #3.  
  
"Wayne Manor" answered a polished voice.  
  
"Alfred, It's me. Can you talk."  
  
"Master Dick? Yes of course."  
  
"Secure the line, then." Dick pushed an unlabeled button on his telephone and knew Alfred had done the same when he heard a distant chirp through the earpiece.  
  
"So Bruce isn't around" he began as Alfred was saying:  
  
"I was sorry to have missed seeing you during your recent visit, Sir."   
  
There was a hint of reproach in the "Sir" - Alfred was as much a surrogate father to Dick as Bruce had been, and he had been disappointed (though he would never say so) to learn the boy had paid his first visit in months on the Butler's day out.   
Since he was ten, Dick recognized "Sir" was the Alfredian dialect for "Listen hear young man, saving the city from the Scarecrow does not mean you don't have to put your dirty t-shirt in the clothes hamper/eat your vegetables/call when you're going to be late...  
Dick realized he should do some explaining before diving into the business of the call.  
  
"I'm sorry about that, Alfred. I hadn't really expected to be in the city - it just happened, and coming out to the manor was an afterthought. If I'd thought it out beforehand, of course I would've called ahead. I promise I will next time"  
  
"Very good, Master Dick"   
  
Dick sighed with relief. He knew from the other's tone that he was forgiven and his next visit home would be marked with specially-baked cookies and other unspoken expressions of affection.  
  
"Alfred, look, the reason I was calling ...did Bruce tell you any specifics about when I dropped in the other morning?"  
  
"He informed me that you had again made the dean's list, that you were seeing a young woman named Molly who was a drama major and a red head, and whom we would meet when you came home next month for Thanksgiving. And also that Nightwing was making quite a reputation for himself as a figure to be reckoned with."   
  
Evidently from Bruce's point-of-view these details of Dick's life represented the big news of the day. How was he ever going to work this around to the question he wanted to ask?  
  
"So is Catwoman living there now?" He blurted.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"I mean - she was there - Selina - she was there at the house, making breakfast - and she joked about Rod Serling and Bruce's cooking, and they were both acting like it was nothing out of the ordinary"  
  
It was true. The curvaceous brunette had appeared in the kitchen wearing - Dick still couldn't quite believe he had seen it - a borrowed sweater of Bruce's pulled over what were quite clearly the leggings and boots of her Catwoman costume, and announced her intention to leave "so you two can talk." An uncharacteristically cheerful Bruce had escorted her from the kitchen - after which there was a girlish giggle from behind the door that Dick found impossible to reconcile with the fierce whip-wielding catburgler. When he returned a minute later, Bruce asked about his studies, his girlfriend Molly, his progress as Nightwing, and his plans for the holidays. He made no reference to Selina's unexplained appearance, nor did he allow the conversation to get anywhere near the subject.  
  
"Sir," Alfred began - it was the third "Sir" of the conversation, not a good sign. - The formal speech that followed was not encouraging either: "a butler's first duty, to any employer, is to maintain the utmost discretion regarding that employer's private affairs."  
  
"I understand that, Alfred, really I do, but-"  
  
"When that employer is none other than Batman, there is an even greater duty to an even higher standard of discretion..."  
  
"Alfred, I understand, but..."  
  
"Even with a trusted member of the family such as yourself, Sir, I don't believe I can comment on matters the master has not, himself, chosen to discuss..."  
  
Dick sighed. If he wanted to learn anything, he would have to find another approach.  
  
***  
  
Batman landed noiselessly on an office rooftop that afforded the second-best view of the Carmen Gallery. Across an alleyway was the residential hotel who's rooftop afforded the best view, and there - Déjà vu - he saw Catwoman carefully casing the gallery's rear entrance.   
  
This was precisely their position two nights ago. It began weeks earlier...  
  
An excited buzz had been circulating through the inner circle of the city's arts-aficionados: Carmen Gallery was donating a priceless emerald necklace to the Gotham Museum, where it would lose its claim to being "priceless" when featured in a silent auction at the museum's fundraiser.  
Bruce Wayne, as a long-time board member, was trapped in a tedious meeting of the fundraising sub-committee in the museum's fine arts library that doubled as the boardroom. Mrs. Ashton-Larraby was droning on and on about choosing a theme for the event that would not attract the attention of one of the city's costumed criminals. The opera's unfortunate choice of a "Double your winnings Monte Carlo Night" had managed a hat-trick: drawing out Two Face, thanks to the Double reference; the Joker, thanks to a logo of ornate continental playing cards; and the Penguin, when a pre-event article pictured the feather-clad performers called "Showbirds" who would be appearing.  
In an effort to relieve the boredom, Bruce voiced his opinion that a necklace valued at, conservatively, half-a-million dollars, was a tempting target regardless of any criminal's stated theme. Mrs. Ashton-Larraby told "poor dear Brucie" that, for one who had lived here all his life, he obviously had no insight to the unique theme-park nature of the criminal element of Gotham City.  
Outwardly Bruce Wayne sulked; inwardly Batman seethed. The woman was an absolute moron - he knew Gotham's criminals better than anyone, and he knew for a fact that all but a handful worked exactly like Mrs. Ashton-Larraby figuring out her income tax - starting with the result they want to achieve and working backwards to make the numbers reach that conclusion.  
  
As the meeting limped on (and on), Bruce noticed an attractive woman replacing books on the shelves in the library half of the room. She seemed somehow familiar, but he couldn't place where from.  
That was uncharacteristic of him - and troubling - his success and his survival in his chosen line of work depended on observation and - WOW, WHAT LEGS - the woman had climbed onto library steps and was reaching to arrange some books as a display on the top shelf, pulling the skirt up several inches to reveal a peek of (WOW), the most perfectly formed legs Bruce had ever seen.  
Maybe he knew her from a resort somewhere, could he have seen her in a bathing suit? Is that why he couldn't place her here in this setting?  
  
"Wayne!" Bruce started. The meeting was ending and Rob Tykes was speaking to him "I said I'm heading uptown, want to share a cab?" Tykes was a dot-com billionaire who enjoyed flouting the lifestyle of the superrich by flying coach, taking the subway, and eating in delis. He was a brilliant and insightful man often dismissed by superficial people who bought into the façade of an eccentric computer geek that can't buy a newspaper without assistance - Bruce liked him instinctively.   
  
"No thanks; Car's waiting downstairs - but I can drop you, if you don't mind waiting a minute."  
  
"While you introduce yourself to Legs over there?" asked Tykes. Bruce started again. Jesus, the guy was sharp.   
  
"Do you know who she is?" asked Bruce.  
  
"New volunteer. Lisa or Laura or something. Quite the arts background from what I hear."  
  
He did introduced himself -  
  
He assumed Rich, Handsome, Bachelor "the world is my oyster" smile #7 and approached the stepladder.   
  
"Excuse me," He began in Confident, Sophisticated Bachelor voice # 4, "I can't shake this feeling that I know you from somewhere..."  
  
"Gee that's an original line," she observed in an amused voice that was **also** bafflingly familiar "Be a dear and hand me the books from that desk would you."  
  
She hadn't turned from the shelves to see Handsome Bachelor smile #7, and it occurred to Bruce that, working where she did, looking like she did, it might not have the affect he anticipated anyway. A woman like that must have men hitting on her right left and center, and he, Bruce Wayne, society playboy and despair of a dozen matchmaking mamas, had just approached her with "Don't I know you from somewhere."  
  
He remembered he owned a mansion and tried a new tack as he handed up the first volume:   
  
"Actually," he said, "I do have an ulterior motive for wanting to meet you. I have a large collection of rare books and some artwork and antiques I'd like to have catalogued. Mr. Tykes tells me you're quite the expert on that kind of thing."   
  
"I might be able to help you out" she answered politely, "what kind of collection?"  
  
"I wouldn't know how to describe it, I'm afraid. It came to me as 'manor and its contents'."  
  
She glanced down, and silently gulped. The man she was talking to was - not only of the Greek God variety - he was Bruce (Wayne-Manor, Wayne-Enterprises, Wayne-Foundation) Wayne.  
  
"Alright, let me come over and take a look and we can hammer out the details."   
  
She climbed down.  
  
"My name's 'Lena, by the way, Lena Kyle."  
  
"Bruc - "  
  
He broke off. Their eyes met as she extended her hand and - piercing green eyes - eyes he had no trouble placing: Catwoman!   
  
"Ohmygod" she blurted, not noticing that he had stumbled on his own name, "I just got it!"  
  
Bruce froze.  
  
" I don't believe I didn't see it immediately. You want me to **come up and see your etchings!** That's even worse than 'don't I know you from somewhere'!" She laughed with delight at her joke, and Bruce wondered vaguely if this might be some karmic payback for all the women he'd abandoned at parties over the years whenever Batman business called him away.  
  
Because he could see no alternative, Bruce arranged for Selina Kyle a.k.a. Catwoman to come to dinner the following evening to view the art, antiques and rare books she would catalog for him. Directions to Wayne Manor were somewhat complicated, and he agreed to send Alfred to pick her up in town.  
  
As he exited the building, past Mrs. Ashton-Larraby pouring herself and approximately 40-lbs of sable into a limousine, past Rob Tykes buying a pretzel from a sidewalk vendor, Bruce thought bitterly that he would only have to ask the IRS to calculate his income tax and hire a bloodhound to deliver a beefsteak to the complete the inanities of this day.  
  
  
  
###  
  
  



	2. Part II

TWO DAYS LATER - Part II  
  
In the years he acted as Batman, Bruce Wayne had seen astonishing things. He'd witnessed madness, vision, cruelty, greed, nobility, triumph and tragedy in countless forms and on such a scale that he modestly believed he was beyond being surprised.   
This evening many things would surprise him.  
  
He had deftly maneuvered himself into this dinner with all the strategic brilliance of Wile E Coyote stepping into his Acme Road-Runner's-Can't-Resist-Catapult and tossing himself off a cliff. Before realizing who she was, he had hired Selina Kyle, a.k.a. The Catwoman, to catalogue the vast assortment of art and antiques at Wayne Manor. Her visit tonight was to view the collection and talk terms.   
  
Alfred had been eerily silent since Bruce told him about the arrangement. At first Bruce wasn't sure the butler even heard him, but at 5:15 he appeared in the Batcave and gave a soft cough. "I was about to go into town to pick up Miss Kyle, Sir, as you requested. You will wish to return upstairs no later than six to change. I have laid out the gray cashmere and heather-mixture lounge."  
  
Bruce blinked.   
Alfred always maintained a certain degree of formality, but he was still Alfred: Alfred who had served his parents, who put up with his antics as an energetic youngster, who raised him after his parents' violent deaths. Why was he suddenly acting like- a butler?  
  
"I also have dinner preparations under way in the kitchen. Please do not touch anything."  
  
Bruce decided the best way to acknowledge this performance was to give a little back, so he began a gruff "Thank you, Pennyworth" but knew the word would catch in his throat. Too much, something lighter:   
  
"Thank you, Jeeves" said Bruce, turning with a smile to show it was said in fun.   
  
Nothing.   
  
"Jeeves" had vanished - silently, instantly, in a way Commissioner Gordon and half the criminal-snitches in Gotham City would have found oddly familiar.   
  
As he changed for dinner, Bruce decided Alfred's odd behavior was simply a butler's way of registering disapproval. Of course, whenever Alfred disapproved of something Batman proposed (and he frequently did) he said so openly and directly. Or sometimes with a scathing irony that masked his concern for a young man he loved risking life and limb on a regular basis. But this, Bruce told himself, was different - it wasn't life and death. It was a girl. It was a girl that was going to be installed in the house for two weeks or more, breaking Alfred's routine, needing access to storage closets and old documents, possibly wanting to pick his brain about where a certain painting was hung 30 years ago. It was a butler's disapproval and he was expressing it in a butlery fashion. "Well, well" thought Bruce to himself, "so this is the kind of thing I've been missing out on all these years by not living a 'normal' life."   
  
His conclusion couldn't have been farther from the truth. Bruce's clumsy effort to identify the woman at the museum was the first sign of humanity he had shown in some time, and Alfred was glad for it. He had seen Bruce becoming more and more intense, withdrawn, and obsessive since Dick Grayson had left for college. It had been like this before Dick came to live with them, and Alfred knew it could not be healthy. The odd behavior Bruce attributed to disapproval was an awkward attempt to mask amusement and relief.   
  
***  
  
"Is it possible to burn soup?"  
  
Alfred had never entirely understood the American sense of humor, but he smiled politely at what he assumed was a joke on the part of Master Bruce's dinner guest.  
  
"Um, Alfred," Bruce began sheepishly, "this might be my doing. I passed through the kitchen while you were out and it looked like that big pot would never heat up in time so I turned the burner up a notch, and then I felt guilty because you told me not to touch anything no matter what, so I went back and turned it back down, and just to set things right I gave it a good stir."  
  
Alfred tried not to visibly sigh as he lifted the ladle to his nose and sniffed... burnt milk. He would never understand how a man who could disarm a bomb, analyze soil samples, neutralize toxic chemicals, and reprogram a Cray computer, can turn right around and not only scorch the crème base for the Crab Bisque, but "give it a good stir" to make sure the revolting flavor was spread evenly throughout the mixture.  
  
Selina Kyle took a sip of wine and laughed off the episode with a good humor Bruce began to realize was genuine. This woman sitting across from him was a real person, not a role the way his vapid socialite or busy executive were roles. God that must be nice, Bruce thought, to be able to just pull off the mask and the costume and...  
  
"...be a real person" the left side of his brain finished the thought, while the right side was stopped cold at the image of Catwoman "pulling off the mask and costume..."  
  
Bruce hid his blush behind a napkin and reflected that the evening might prove more perilous than he thought.  
  
***  
  
Batman was worried. Dinner had gone well. Selina had made small talk and gossiped like any of a dozen debutantes he might have dated as Bruce Wayne. There was poor Dan Fendley, on trial for insider trading, they do say Mrs. Fendley wanted to leave him, but it would look bad if she divorced him when he was in prison, and that's why he wouldn't cut a deal with the prosecutors. The Pocci design house was going under, the brothers were quarreling again...  
  
But now that they had begun the tour of the house she was looking at him strangely. Bruce wondered if she was sizing up the manor for a robbery, but no, the looks weren't directed at the paintings or the ornaments; they were aimed, unmistakably, at him.  
  
They came to a Mary Cassatt placed next to a Monet, and Selina praised the juxtaposition of a female and male artist of the same period. This turned the discussion to women and men artists generally, and Bruce remembered a bit of trivia he had read: that the idea that women were more emotional than men derived from the fact that men compartmentalize their thinking, they'll use either their left brain or right, thinking either logically or creatively. Women's brains are more integrated, they're more likely to apply right brain principles to left brain tasks and vice versa.  
  
"I guess that would make a big difference for an artist - balancing controlled technique with creative impulses"  
  
He stopped. A pair of suspicious green eyes were boring into him. He had the gnawing feeling that for the first time this evening he was dealing with Catwoman.  
  
"Okay. I give." She stated flatly. "Who are you and what did you do with that epic idiot I had dinner with."  
  
Bruce half-shrugged.  
  
"No No No, None of that 'who me' shit. I sat there and prattled on for an hour and a half about Mrs. Fendley and the goddamn Pocci brothers because you gave me every indication that if you were confronted with an actual IDEA you would collapse into a pile of very expensive dust."  
  
Bruce swallowed hard. Selina continued her rant...  
  
"Now it turns out, you're interesting! You read. You think. You even have taste."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"I just don't get it. - Why?"  
  
"Habit, I guess." Bruce decided a half-truth was better than a lie. "It's a business thing. In my work, it's best if people's first impression of Bruce Wayne is that he's a frivolous idiot."  
  
Selina smiled and stifled a giggle. The storm had passed.   
"You talk about yourself in the third person? Do you know how psychotic that sounds?"  
  
"I never thought about it."  
  
"Ever see the Bob Dole skit on Saturday Night Live?"  
  
"Oh god."  
  
"You know what your problem is, Mr Wayne. You take yourself too damn seriously."  
  
And with that she kissed his cheek, pivoted and walked away.  
  
"I'll start Monday morning at ten o'clock." She called over her shoulder. "I can see myself out."  
  
***  



	3. Part III

TWO DAYS LATER - Part III  
  
In training Dick Grayson to be Robin, Batman had taught the boy to look for advantage in disadvantageous circumstances. When he realized he had accidentally hired Selina 'Catwoman' Kyle to catalog the art and antiques at Wayne Manor, Bruce reasoned that he would at least have a chance to study her when her guard was down, perhaps learn how she thinks and how to predict her behavior.   
  
She'd been working at the manor for only a few days, and he'd already learned plenty. It was not the sort of revelation he expected. He learned that he was an isolated, lonely man who took no joy in life. He learned it was pleasant to share a meal with a bright congenial woman, to watch an old movie or listen to music with someone after dinner, and simply to have someone else in the room while reading on a rainy afternoon. He learned that smiling and laughing makes others want to smile and laugh, and there is a profound satisfaction in this.   
  
All he learned about her was that the relationship between their civilian identities was not so very different from their costumed ones. The first night when she realized he wasn't as shallow and superficial as he pretended, she verbally beat him about the head and shoulders, kissed him, and left him standing there with a dumb look on his face.  
  
After that, Bruce decided he was done being passive: on the pretext of apologizing for the first meal, he asked her to stay after work that second night and eat with him again - For after dinner, he rented the remake of The Thomas Crown Affair. He settled in for what he imagined would be an instructive evening: watching Catwoman watch a movie about a sexy thrill-seeking art thief.  
  
***  
  
As a rule, Bruce didn't care for movies: he never went out to see one in a theater since the night of his parents' murder. When videos became popular he saw them as a marvelous way to keep abreast of popular culture. He told himself this knowledge was as vital for making smalltalk at the Wayne Enterprises watercooler as it was in deciphering the taunts of Batman's enemies. But he did not consider watching videos to be entertainment - not until tonight. Watching The Thomas Crown Affair with Selina Kyle was nothing if not entertaining. She seemed to view the intricately-plotted chess game-cum-romance between a daring art thief and the beautiful insurance investigator out to trap him as a kind of screwball comedy. She laughed merrily and often, and offered the occasional comment along the lines of "security stooge in the side pocket," "yeah, that'll work," and at one point "sheesh, channeling Batman now." Bruce found himself laughing along with her, although he couldn't say he always understood the joke.  
  
While the evening was useless from a crime-fighting perspective, Bruce had to admit he enjoyed himself. A few days later Selina thanked him by bringing a tape of Cyrano de Bergerac, and of course he invited her to stay and watch it with him.  
  
It would be mean another night he couldn't patrol as Batman. Still, he reassured himself, he had intended to keep a close eye on Selina after working hours. He had imagined he'd be following her home and discovering her preparations to return to the manor as Catwoman. He did not expect to be sitting in his own livingroom watching Cyrano's preparations to seduce Roxanne. Nevertheless, these movie nights did permit him to keep an eye on her.  
  
Alfred had a slightly different view: He felt Bruce was loathe to admit to having ordinary human feelings and had to concoct a Batmanesque rationalization for doing something he enjoyed. He was pleased, however, that since Selina's arrival, he did not have to remind his employer to eat quite so often. There are only so many times you can reheat a plate of cutlets before they take on the appearance and texture of cardboard.  
  
Selina may have enjoyed these evenings as much as Bruce, but ever catlike, she lived in the now: a good time last night had nothing to do with an annoyance today:  
  
"Are you a vampire or something?" was this morning's opening volley.  
  
"Excuse me?"   
  
"All three Bronte sisters working together wouldn't know what to make of this house - there must be sixty rooms, and you're always in the dreariest one. I was just in the drawingroom where we watched the movie last night -"  
  
Bruce spent most evenings there. A wall of oversized windows faced the city, assuring that he would spot the BatSignal if it were lit.   
  
"- in the morning the sun comes streaming in through those big picture windows, it's quite wonderful. So of course you're in here, in a room with no windows at all"  
  
"That's why this is the library, direct sunlight can damage the books."  
  
Selina shook her head and left. The man was a puzzle. A frustrating but handsome, contradictory but intelligent, rich, moody, gloom-dwelling but intriguing puzzle.  
  
***  
  
Bruce had some distinctly uncomfortable moments during that second movie night - When Cyrano, cloaked in darkness, woos his love Roxanne on her balcony, she not realizing who it is that's wooing her, Bruce coughed. When Cyrano mused that Roxanne's love was in fact tied up in two different men: handsome Christian's face and Cyrano's poetic soul, Bruce squirmed. When years later Roxanne recognized her old friend Cyrano as the voice from the darkness below her balcony years before, Bruce fidgeted with the sofacushion. When the film ended and Selina asked how he liked it, Bruce turned quite pale and said "Well…" then trailed off. His stomach churned. There had been a secret and ironic agenda in the film he had chosen. Had he betrayed himself and was this film her way of retaliating?  
  
"My bad." she said frankly, "It was chick flick."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"A chick flick, the kinds of thing women drag their boyfriends to, that they can't stand but sit through anyway."  
  
"I guess you're my girlfriend then" he answered without thinking "because I didn't much like it."  
  
She smiled. "Then you can pick the next one."  
  
"That would be a 'dick flick'?" he asked.  
  
Selina laughed out loud. "I knew it, I knew you could lighten up if you tried."  
  
Bruce tried his best to look like he had meant it as a joke.  
  
He reflected that after three meals, two movies and a tongue-lashing, Bruce Wayne wasn't finding Selina Kyle any more predictable. He wondered how these events would affect the next meeting between Batman and Catwoman. In forty-eight hours he would find out.  
  
***  
  
Still unsure if he was engaged in a silent battle in this series of movie nights, Bruce wanted to choose the next film with great care. At Alfred's suggestion he chose Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare's comedy about a pair of ever-bickering lovers. Selina begged off the invitation, however, leaving promptly at 5:00.  
  
Suspicious, he followed her. She went to the Centurion Club and there met Robert Tykes, a fellow Board Member from the Gotham Museum. While this wasn't particularly suspicious from Batman's point of view, Bruce found it disturbing. When the pair were joined by the museum's Executive Director, Taylor White, and the head curator, Randal Kaufman, Batman became more suspicious, but Bruce felt, unaccountably, relieved. This too was disturbing - that he should be more troubled by the sight of Selina having drinks with Rob Tykes than Catwoman hobnobbing with three of the most well-connected insiders at the Gotham Museum. Where were his priorities?  
Apparently he'd left them in the VCR back at the manor, he thought sourly.  
  
When the group left the club and walked two blocks uptown to the Carmen Gallery, Batman mentally kicked himself: Tonight was a special cocktail party when the Gallery would publicly unveil a spectacular emerald necklace they were donating to Gotham Museum. It was to be sold at a Silent Auction the fundraising committee was planning on the very day he met Selina at the museum. Bruce had become so preoccupied with her presence at Wayne Manor, he hadn't even considered the possibility that she might have another target.   
  
There was no reason Bruce Wayne couldn't drop in on this party, he was a museum board member and had been invited. When he entered the room, Robert Tykes approached him first.   
  
"Save yourself Bruce, it's the dullest party the arts world has seen since the opening of that Egyptian Studies exhibit, and at least they had the excuse that the guest of honor had been dead for 5000 years."  
  
Bruce smiled wanly and took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Tykes continued his lament:  
  
"I invited Selina hoping she'd liven up this boring lot, but she's in a vile mood. All she did was start Kaufman and White talking shop -about the Scandals exhibit no less - they're still pretty defensive about it and now they're off at the bar getting quietly sloshed."  
  
SCANDALS had been the talk of the town a few months earlier. The show contained very controversial artwork - the kind of images meant to push people's buttons. Those who were offended protested and petitioned - even the Mayor got involved denouncing the use of public monies for what he described as "disgusting filth." That, of course, put the thing on the front page of the newspapers, and soon artists, showbiz people, and civil liberties organizations had galvanized to defend freedom of expression and speech. There were more demonstrations, and wars of words in the op/ed pages. The exhibit ran its course then closed, and the excitement was forgotten by all but a few.   
  
Bruce joined Taylor White at the bar. The museum director appeared to be arguing his case to a bottle of scotch. When a person came into view, he turned to include Bruce in the conversation, but continued seamlessly:  
  
"… 13,000 artists-in-residents, 125 hours of arts programming that reaches 300 million viewers, thousands and thousands of grants, and do you know how many artists and exhibits the fuss is about - Four !. Just think, Bruce, how much art is controversial in some way - most of it, right - and what a tiny percentage of public money funds controversial art."  
  
"Taylor that was months ago" said Bruce, trying to lighten the mood, " that flap won't affect the fundraiser."  
  
"The Mayor came off badly." Taylor White turned back to the Scotch bottle and directed the rest of his statement to an audience that wouldn't try to cheer him: "his criticism backfired - he's head of the most cultured and sophisticated city in the world - he wound up looking like the kingpin of some mid-west backwater kowtowing to a PTA that wants to ban Huckleberry Finn. He blames us."  
  
Bruce wandered over to Selina, standing by herself at the display case that held the necklace. As he approached he heard her speak in a low hiss: "It's a payoff"  
  
'You know I forgot all about this shindig before when I asked you to see a movie tonight" he began, again trying to lighten the mood. It occurred to Bruce that Robert Tykes was right about it being a dismal party - when Bruce Wayne is the cheeriest person in the room, it's not a good sign.  
  
She turned. "I thought we decided you were not going to act the clueless playboy with me."  
Boy, she was in a vile mood.   
  
"Not an act, I really did forget it."  
  
"Guess your mother never told you not to make faces or it might stick that way." She muttered.  
  
Casual references to parents always soured Bruce's mood. No, his mother never did say those wonderfully trite things that all mothers say, because her life had been cut short by a bullet.  
  
"I'm sorry" he snapped bitterly. He stood silently and pretended to look at the necklace but his heart was racing and his stomach seemed to push into his throat. It had been Batman's voice that spoke. Oh shit. Oh shitoshitoshit. It was only two words. Three syllables. She probably wasn't even listening, he thought hopefully. She's absorbed in whatever it is that's upsetting her about that necklace.  
  
When she spoke, it might have had something to do with the necklace, or it might not:  
  
"Does it occur to you, Mr. Wayne, that there are a lot of very angry people in this city? You know why? People get angry when they feel powerless. When they get the feeling that they're being shafted but don't know exactly how."  
  
***  
  



	4. Part IV

TWO DAYS LATER   
Part IV  
  
After the cocktail party-from-hell Bruce decided it would be Batman following Selina from now on. He followed her home and installed himself on the rooftop directly above her posh upper Westside penthouse. He was beginning to feel foolish when several hours after sunset, there was no sign of life from within. Stakeouts were like that, hours of waiting with nothing to do but second-guess yourself. He thought over their exchange at the party, when as Bruce Wayne he had unconsciously spoken in Batman's voice to a woman who was quite likely to recognize it. He cursed himself and his carelessness. Why had he let her get so close? How could he let his guard down that way? What was he thinking these past weeks flirting with her like she was some ordinary girl? Was he subconsciously trying to get himself killed? "Does it occur to you that there are a lot of angry people in this city?" She had said. "People get angry when they feel powerless. When they get the feeling that they're being shafted, even if they don't know exactly how." The anger that comes from powerlessness he could relate to - but before he dared ask what she meant by the rest, she seemed to shake off her mood. "Y'know what" she turned with a smile and gestured with a bottle of Perrier: "I'm switching to vodka." His legs were cramping. As he stood to stretch them he saw movement, a shadow of a shadow on the penthouse balcony. The shadow stretched and pulled itself into a shape - my, but she did have a lovely shape.  
  
He followed her across the park, trying to ignore the guilty thrill he always had watching her move in that costume. She first went back to the Carmen Gallery. She seemed to examine the front entrance and the rear, but she didn't go inside. From there she went to a photography studio. She defeated the minimal security in a matter of minutes. Through night-goggles, Batman watched her remove a pane of the skylight, lower herself into an office, and go to work on the safe. He didn't wait to see more, but positioned himself on the roof near the skylight she'd used to enter. He waited until she remerged and carefully replaced the glass.  
  
"Why bother." He growled in the kind of voice icebergs might use if they spoke.  
  
Catwoman was visibly startled, but she didn't run.  
  
"You don't think they'll figure out they've been robbed," Batman continued, "when they come in in the morning and find the safe is empty?"  
  
Catwoman stood very slowly, sacheted over to him and spoke in a seductive purr:  
  
"You think I took something from the safe? Search me."   
  
"Okay then, why are you here?"  
  
An eyebrow raised behind her mask.   
  
"Giving me the benefit of the doubt? What inspires such unprecedented trust?"  
  
"It hardly seems up to your standard. What could a photographer have that's valuable enough to pique your interest?"  
  
"How about a 200-carat emerald necklace."  
  
It was Batman's turn to start in surprise.   
  
"But you didn't take it?"  
  
"I invited you to search me, Handsome."  
  
"Then I'll ask again, what are you doing here?"  
  
She smiled. "Why, confirming that the necklace is a fake, of course."  
  
"Enough games, Catwoman. What's going on here?"  
  
"Does it occur to you that there are a lot of very angry people in this city?" She repeated her query from the party.  
  
"Is that supposed to be an answer to my question?"  
  
She sighed. "If we both keep answering questions with questions, we'll be here all night."  
  
Batman said nothing.  
  
"There was a big to-do a few months ago about that "Scandals" exhibit at the Gotham Museum, you remember it?  
  
"Go on."  
  
"You know what publicity like that does to the value of the artworks? Raises it through the roof. I've had some unbelievable offers to 'acquire' pieces from that show for collectors in Bangkok, in Buenos Aires, in Singapore - people that never heard of the artists before. Those pieces are world famous now."  
  
"That exhibit closed months ago," Batman interrupted, "and none of those works are here at this studio."  
  
"Wait for it." Catwoman chanted playfully, then continued her explanation. "Most of that collection **has** been sold since the show - do you know who did the selling? "  
  
Batman shook his head.  
  
"Carmen Gallery. They've made over a million dollars in commissions, kickbacks, finders fees, over the table and under. Now they're giving that necklace to the museum's fundraising auction - it's a payoff, for delivering the public outcry that tripled the price of the art."  
  
"Why didn't the gallery hold the exhibit themselves?"  
  
"Because the people who would object would never have noticed - no, it had to be a publicly-funded museum. That was sure to get everyone's attention. So all those people who were offended, and all those people defending free speech, were all being used by a few very oily individuals that have made an awful lot of money."  
  
"Where does the fake necklace come in?"  
  
"Oh, that's the best part. The gallery plans to rip the suckers off one last time - swapping the real necklace for a paste copy after the experts have authenticated it. Before the fundraiser the museum will want to have a lot of press devoted to the auction and the necklace. This photographer will take the publicity photos for the press kit. When he does, he'll switch it for the fake, and return the original to Carmen's."  
  
"And that's where you come in - robbing the robbers."  
  
"There's a certain poetic justice to it, don't you think."  
  
"Only if you're planning to give it to the high-bidder that winds up with the fake."  
  
Catwoman pouted.  
  
"You're no fun."  
  
Batman sighed. "So you weren't targeting the museum itself for a robbery, you were there to find out details like who was selling the Scandals art and who would be taking the publicity photos of the necklace."  
  
Catwoman's eyes widened. She was silent for a long moment, and then smiled a slow, enigmatic smile. "Enough games indeed" she said. "You're the great detective - I haven't been able to figure out how much the people at the museum know." She leaned in closer and began tracing the bat emblem on his chest…"the staff, the board." She paused and looked up directly into his eyes: "If they're actively conspiring with the gallery, or if they're pawns too. …Maybe you can do better, find out what I couldn't."  
  
He grabbed her wrist. "You mean, why don't I be a good little boy and investigate the museum while you steal from the gallery. No."  
  
Her eyes never left his. "I mean, my Dark Knight, that being on the board yourself, being on that fundraising committee, it's a good bet that you **didn't** know anything shady was going on. But you are in a plum perfect position to find out if anyone else did."  
  
Batman was silent for a long moment.  
  
"How long have you known?"  
  
"For certain, about 3 minutes - that voice of yours, granite and steel inside a subwoofer - it's pretty distinctive, but I had to hear it again to be sure. But, since I'm not a bit surprised and since it should be one hell of a shocking revelation, I suppose some part of me has known for a while now."  
  
He didn't respond. Batman had sometimes considered what would happen if an enemy learned his secret identity. He envisioned ninja-like assassins invading the manor in the middle of the night, firebombs, blackmail. He'd never imagined civilized conversation.   
While these thoughts raced through his mind, Selina continued her monologue:  
  
"-In fact, my god, you told me in a way that first night: men compartmentalize their thinking more - at any given moment you're either Bruce or Batman, but very seldom both at once, am I right. Ha - boy that must be weird. So which one of you picked that movie, huh? The Thomas Crown Affair - that was good. That was very, very good."  
  
A lifetime of fighting had taught him to turn his responses over to instinct during attacks. His instincts didn't know what to make of this. She was so damn AMUSED by it all.   
  
"Did you recognize me right off?" she was asking "I'm surprised you didn't put the moves on me - wouldn't that have been kinky, you sleeping with me, knowing who I was but my not knowing you…"  
  
This was intolerable.   
  
"Alright!" he cut her off "God, You are the most infuriating woman I have ever known! Okay, you know a name, an address, and a face - but so do I. It would seem we're at an impasse. I know as much about you as you do about me."  
  
"So what do you want to do about it?" She asked softly.  
  
He didn't have an answer. Where were those finely honed instincts when he needed them.  
  
"Well, let's see. We could…ignore the situation entirely, pretend it didn't happen, never speak of it, like the survivors of the Donner party… or we could call a truce and work on this museum investigation together… or we could get naked and shake the cobblestones loose… or we could change all the names and write a trashy tell-all book… or maybe-  
  
Instinct finally did take over. In a lightning move he reached out, took her face in both his hands, and stopped that babbling, beautiful mouth with a hard, passionate kiss. Her body arched upwards - in shocked surprise as much as in passion. The come-ons and innuendo between them was almost routine, his hands traveling down her back and grabbing her ass was not. "Oh" she gasped finally into his mouth. He broke the kiss just long enough to say "you say 'cat got your tongue' and I'll have to spank that pretty bottom." Her eyes danced with mischief at this challenge. "Not on your best day" she breathed as her mouth explored the edge of his cowl, where the mask met his throat.  
It was sad, in a way, Catwoman thought as a gloved hand fastened on her breast, the end of an era. But the teasing couldn't go on forever. After years of denial and desire, it was time to move beyond foreplay.  
  
###  



End file.
